


BROOKlyn

by neverending_story



Category: Homeland
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-09
Updated: 2017-02-09
Packaged: 2018-09-22 23:28:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9629768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neverending_story/pseuds/neverending_story
Summary: From end to end, the Brooklyn Bridge is about six thousand feet long. For the first time in years, he might even count each step he takes. It took them so long to get there and yet...Maybe the end is the beginning. And maybe every beginning is in a way an end.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ascloseasthis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ascloseasthis/gifts).



> "Time, which is so often an enemy in life, can also become our ally if we see how a pale moment can lead to a glowing moment, and then turn to a moment of perfect transparency, before dropping again to a moment of everyday simplicity."
> 
> Peter Brook

From end to end, the Brooklyn Bridge is about six thousand feet long. For the first time in years, he might even count each step he takes. 

He's got all the time in the world on his hands. 

It took them so long to get here and yet - maybe the end is the beginning. And maybe every beginning is in a way an end.

It's not what it used to be, long time ago, in a different lifetime perhaps, but it doesn't matter now. _Now_ is beautiful. _Now_ is painful. 

He needed to understand who he was and who he is no longer. Who _she_ is no longer and never ever will be.

 

Everything about them is a new paradigm. Those moments from the past are lost somewhere in between the moments from the present. A present that has already vanished.

Sometimes his brain hurts. Like right now, when he's trying to put all the pieces of the jigsaw together. The pieces that _still_ don't make much sense to him.

 

I am _your_ missing part.

You are _my_ missing part.

 

But was it ever that way? 

Only time will tell. Except time doesn't speak. Time is a silent observer. A flood of water you want to stop. A teardrop you can't quite catch. The only fucking thing that's certain and inevitable.

There were moments when it stopped though. When he was able to forget that he's living and at the same time...blissfully realize that he's completely present.

 

Because it's been his oblivion up until recently, to escape to a different world and just float in non-existence. And his biggest fear too.

And in that glimpse of a moment, he can't remember now - maybe it was yesterday, a few days ago, or maybe millions years ago - something truly changed.

 

He couldn't comprehend what she was saying, what she was offering. He studied her like a map, like a message that's written in riddles. 

Her lips curved into a smile. But were her _eyes _smiling as well? That he can't remember.__

__

__He seems to be almost in the middle now. He could go back but somehow he just has this urge to keep walking. No matter how slowly he moves._ _

__He tilts his head a little to face the sky, to feel the winter air on his cheeks. He closes his eyes and sees her. Of course he does even if he tries not to._ _

__

__She was waiting for him to say something. Anything. And he just couldn't. From what he can remember it's been this way for a very long time. Words gather like soldiers, afraid to move.__

 _ _Waiting for the other to go to the front line. Afraid to be heard, terrified to be trapped in embarrassment.__

__

__So he just keeps silent, his eyes not leaving hers, but there's something that's missing. Understanding? Realization? Of emptiness that surrounds them. Of a love that's been born again._ _

__Of a fire that stopped burning._ _

__

__A brush of an arm. A shy smile and a quick glance away. The depth of someone's gaze. A sudden flush of joy on someone's face. _Somewhere_. __

__She's watching a play and crying. It's freeing and it's purifying. She's alone in the dark and it's the best feeling in the world.__

 _ _

Somebody's laughing somewhere. Somebody's dying somewhere. A Bulgarian taxi driver talks about his daughter. 

A man is watching the seagulls come and go. 

__

__They're not there yet. Or maybe - they'll never ever end up there. Perhaps they should and they're each other's only salvation, and maybe it's better this way._ _

__They are all right standing exactly where they are._ _

__

__Maybe they'll kiss again and maybe they won't. A well preserved memory of something that has never happened. Maybe his hands will turn the pages of the sacred book that is her body and soul._ _

__And maybe they won't. Ever._ _

__

__And maybe he won't keep walking and get to the end of that bridge. Maybe he already lost count of his own steps. Of his own heartbeat._ _

__

__Maybe it's not her whom he suddenly sees in the distance. Her hair glowing in the morning sun like some sort of a miracle. Maybe it's not her who needs him so desperately and eternally._ _

__Maybe that person, moving ever so slowly towards him, _isn't_ her. And maybe - maybe it _is_._ _

__


End file.
